


in omnibus, caritas

by waferkya



Category: Basketball RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Established Relationship, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 07:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>First, the movement which is upwards and continuous. This signifies that they are borne inflexibly towards God.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	in omnibus, caritas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nemiolo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemiolo/gifts).



> This is set in a personal headcanon where the events of the eighth season of Supernatural have ALL taken place, so beware of the spoiler monsters, don't let 'em bite you!

He is half aware of the mattress shifting and creaking, but he doesn’t wake up until he rolls on his side and touches the empty bed beside him. His eyes fluttering open, he skids a hand down the crumpled sheets— _warm_ , he thinks, _can’t be gone too long._

He pulls himself up, lifting a hand to scratch the spot on the back of his neck that always itches first thing in the morning; on the other side of the room, the balcony window is open, the paper-thin curtain fluttering lazily on the soft breath of a bit of wind. It’s barely sunrise. Juan Carlos is out there.

Pau yawns, kicks the blankets away from where they were wrapped around his legs, and walks out of bed, out of the room, his hands finding their place around Juan Carlos’ bony hips. Pau’s mouth locks with a kiss on the soft skin on the side of his neck.

“’mornin’,” he mumbles, sleepy and warm and still content from last night; he’s happy, these days, happier than he’d ever imagined he could be, happy beyond himself, happy beyond definition.

Juan Carlos doesn’t stir, he doesn’t lean back into him or tilt his head to the side to ask, without asking, for more. Pau steps closer, as close as he can without being surgically sewn to him, his chest pressed to Juan Carlos’ naked back. He wins the brush of fingers on his forearm, but it’s not nearly enough; Pau looks up from the cream-white skin under his mouth, he wants to say something, protest a little, but then he sees it— _them_ , a hundred thousands lights raining from the pink-and-azure clear sky like stars, crashing on the horizon without a sound.

“What the fuck?” Pau breathes, his eyes wide, and his grip around Juan Carlos’ waist tightens. “Juanqui, what—what am I looking at?”

“It is finished,” Juan Carlos murmurs, his thick voice reverberating through Pau’s ribcage. He doesn’t take his eyes off the alight sky, doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe; when Pau looks over, the blank expression on Juan Carlos’ face makes him shudder.

He takes a step back and to the side, wrapping his hand around the nape of Juan Carlos’ neck, gently trying to shake him—bring him back.

“Juanqui,” he calls, his other hand brushing the muscular expanse of Juan Carlos’ stomach.

Juan Carlos blinks, deliberately and slowly, and there’s tears trapped in the curled net of his eyelashes. Pau is scared, doesn’t want anything more than pull Juan Carlos back in, to their bed, shut the window and kiss him everywhere so they can pretend none of this, whatever this is, is happening.

A noise from inside the room makes him startle; Marc slams the door shut behind him and in three long strides he’s on the balcony with them, standing at Juan Carlos’ other side.

“What the fuck is going on?” he asks, looking from Pau, who shakes his head slowly, to Juan Carlos, who doesn’t look back, to the sky, which doesn’t answer and keeps weeping silent blades of light down on them.

One golden dart appears out of nothing, closer than all the others; Marc and Pau and Juan Carlos look as it plummets slow as a death from drowning, and then finally, finally crashes—and when it does, it’s not silent at all, but it’s a whisper growing to a piercing screech and it’s loud enough to feel soul-scorching, bright like a dropped bomb, and the voice is human.

It only lasts for a moment, and when the silence comes again, Pau is on his knees, bent over Juan Carlos and with his arms around Marc’s head, keeping him down. His baby brother disentangles himself before he can say anything; he looks scared, his bed-hair wilder than usual, and there’s an open cut on his cheek, nothing serious, but it’s bleeding into his mouth.

Juan Carlos’ hands tug on Pau’s waist, and when he looks down, Juan Carlos is finally looking up to him and seeing, his eyes dark and warm and dry and soft, focused, amused. Pau’s heart jumps to his throat.

“You don’t have to protect me,” Juan Carlos says, not unkindly; Pau cups his hands around his face and kisses his forehead, the tiny crescent-moon shaped scar in the middle of it, Juan Carlos’ eyes fluttering closed with pleasure.

“Next time I’ll remember,” he says, and it sounds like a promise but they both know he doesn’t mean it, just like he didn’t last time and the time before that.

Juan Carlos sighs, shifts back and starts to get up; Pau feels the soft brush of feathers across his back, and even though the sky is still falling on their heads, that’s enough for him to feel safe.

“You okay?” Marc asks, fiddling with the cut on his face and sticking in elbow under Juan Carlos’ ribcage; he frowns, when Juan Carlos doesn’t answer right away.

Pau is up on his feet again, and Juan Carlos closes his eyes, his eyebrows pinched.

“It’s angels,” he says, barely over his breath, and Pau and Marc both lean in closer to hear him. “Those lights. The angels are falling—all of them.”

“Fuck,” Marc mutters. “You’re not okay, then.”

Juan Carlos is looking up again. He looks strong but pale, brave and lost, worried sick and terrified and determined not to show too much of it. Pau’s heart is a fist throwing punches into his chest.

“I’m—” Juan Carlos bites his lips before his voice can break. “I could feel them, before, hear them, even talk to them if I wanted. Now I—now there’s nothing. I’m blind, I’m deaf, I’m—I’m—”

“Hey,” Pau takes his hand, twining their fingers together, and Juan Carlos’ head snaps around to look at him, eyes wide with fear. “Not alone,” Pau tells him, reminds him, and he squeezes Juan Carlos’ hand until Juan Carlos seems to settle, and squeezes back.

He nods, just once, and steps into Pau, without letting go of his hand. Pau hooks his other arm around Juan Carlos’ shoulders, kisses the top of his head.

“Shattered,” Juan Carlos murmurs into his chest. “But you keep me together.”

Pau pulls him closer, holds him tighter. “Always,” he promises, even though he knows Juan Carlos can read that in every line of his body.

Juan Carlos hums, content, his eyelashes brushing Pau’s skin.

Marc coughs loudly.

“So, d’you wanna go check out this falling angels thing or what?”

 

“Okay, I think we’re here,” Marc says, peering out of the windshield and at the factories lined up on the two sides of the street. “Where do we start looking? I’m thinking the brewery.”

Pau rolls his eyes at his brother’s grin, but before he can scold him, Juan Carlos leans in between them from the back seat, and points at a warehouse a little further down the road. “There.”

“I thought you couldn’t feel your pals once they’ve fallen,” Marc says, and this time, Pau slaps him right away.

“I can’t,” Juan Carlos replies, and he sounds slightly amused. “But the big hole in the roof kinda gave it away.”

Both the brothers lean into the dashboard to look up and, oh yeah, there it goes. Big hole in the roof. Kinda gives it away.

Pau pulls over in a tiny alley that smells like wet dog and petroleum, and then the three of them are out of the car, Juan Carlos studying the warehouse with that focused-and-slightly-confused look of his, Marc and Pau fishing guns from the trunk’s false bottom.

“Ready to go,” Pau says, once they’re strapped like they’re going to war. Juan Carlos arches an eyebrow at him.

“You won’t need that,” he whispers, and he sounds rather sad; Pau kisses him, briefly and fully on the mouth.

“I know, but you can’t help your training.”

Juan Carlos doesn’t speak again, and they follow him further down the alley, up to a rusty back door that’s been attacked by several generations of writers and gang-members.

“Isn’t it weird we’re the only ones here?” Marc asks, under his breath, as they get into the warehouse. “I mean, there was a freaking explosion. And lights falling from the sky. How comes we’re the only ones that worry?”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“What? What’s that got to do with anyth—oh,” Marc must’ve checked his watch. It’s five fifteen in the morning. It’s a surprise Spain even exists, this early. “Oh, okay, I get it.”

“Still,” Pau says, without taking his eyes off the shadowy surroundings. “We better be quick about this.”

There’s a smoking heap of metal and debris that was once a big, useful machine of some sort, and is now simply a smoking heap of metal and debris, cast in a spotlight of terse pale sunrise light and fine dust from the hole in the roof fifty meters above; Juan Carlos stops walking, Pau and Marc freezing at his sides.

“Let me go first,” he says. As he takes one further step, from the wreck comes a sharp, panicked intake of breath, like someone suddenly coming back to the surface of the ocean.

“That doesn’t sound too good,” Marc mutters; Juan Carlos gives him a stern look from above his shoulder.

“Let me go first,” he repeats, his voice clear like a bell, and he waits for Marc to nod before turning back.

The gasping slowly turns to hiccupy sobbing; by the time Juan Carlos has reached the source of the sound, Pau is more than willing to shoot whatever creature is going to come out of there just to put it out of its misery.

Juan Carlos murmurs something in Enochian, his voice soothing and smoky—Pau bites a sigh and stares and Marc rolls his eyes, mouthing _what a fucking sap_ —but the moment he stops talking, the fallen angel makes a shrill, high-pitched noise like he’s in so, so much pain.

Pau and Marc cock their guns and step up before they can even think about it.

“Do not fear,” they hear Juan Carlos say. “I am with you. I will keep you safe, brother.”

Then a jumble of thin, shaky, broken voices—human and animal and male and female and old and young and indiscernible—whispers, “Why have you abandoned me? Why are you so far away when I groan for help?”

“Isn’t that from the Bible?” Marc asks, quietly.

“I have heard you,” Juan Carlos says, a little firmer, and he makes as to climb up the wrecked machine, but he doesn’t move. “I am not Our Father, but I hear you. I am here for you.”

The quivering voice of a boy asks, “Who are you? I know your voice.”

Juan Carlos’ shoulders sink. He looks back at the two brothers.

“Cover your eyes,” he tells them, and he takes a step up the wreck; Pau and Marc don’t drop their weapons, but they duck their heads and hide their faces behind their jackets. They can feel the heat of Juan Carlos anyway, a blindingly pure white light breaking out from his body, painting the black shadow of three pairs of wings; it sings, too, the light, his Grace, or maybe it’s not him as much as everything around him, all that exists reacting to his presence like a chime to the wind. Pau feels his chest swell, soar high, as if he’s sharing just a crumble of Juan Carlos’ perfection, as insane as it is.

“Stop!” comes the plead, from the same boyish voice as before. “Please, you’re—it’s too much, please, stop, _stop_!”

The light is gone, and so is the dizzying sensation that set Pau’s body ablaze.

“Hush now,” Juan Carlos says, not unkindly; he’s murmuring in Enochian again, and when Pau and Marc look up, he walks out of the twisted trap of metal without a scratch on him, carrying a naked, unconscious young man in his arms.

“Fuck me sideways,” Marc mutters, and he puts his gun back in the waistband of his jeans before walking to Juan Carlos. “Need a hand?”

“Thank you, but it’s fine,” Juan Carlos says, his eyes not once leaving the boy’s face.

Pau is staring, and he can’t help it. He stares at Juan Carlos’ arms, wrapped protectively around the boy’s lithe, sun-kissed body; he stares at the young, much too young face that’s half-turned into Juan Carlos’ chest; he stares at the way Juan Carlos looks down at the boy, and hides jealousy under a sickening sweet feeling of tenderness.

Juan Carlos walks to him, and only then he looks up.

“Can he stay with us, for a while?” he asks quietly, and it doesn’t sound like a mere courtesy; he looks a little scared, like he’s worried that Pau might say no, turn his back on him.

Pau sighs with a smile; he kisses Juan Carlos— _mine, please don’t forget it_ —and then nods. “Of course.”

 

His name is Ricky, and he is—was—a malakhim, a plain angel. He likes chocolate milk, and Juan Carlos keeps refilling his glass with a blink of his eyes.

“Ricky’s a weird name for an angel,” Marc points out; he’s sitting backwards on a chair, arms crossed on top of the back and chin propped over them. He volunteered one of his shirts and a pair of boxers and socks and jeans that don’t fit him anymore, and now Ricky’s wearing all that, except the jeans, because two sizes too small for Marc is still too big for him.

His legs are long and muscular and folded under his body, a stain of golden on the pale sheets of Pau and Juan Carlos’ bed.

“I know it is,” he murmurs, his thumb running along the rim of his glass. “I know I had a different name, before, but I can’t—I don’t remember what it was.”

“Wait,” Marc says, raising a finger. “Lemme get this straight. You have the chance to choose a new name for yourself, and you go and pick _Ricky_?”

Ricky’s lips curl into a tiny, pretty smile. “I like it.”

“Dude. You have issues.”

Nobody argues with that, and a heavy silence settles. Marc seems fascinated, or just puzzled by Ricky; Pau has banished himself to a corner of the room, scowling in the general direction of the others; Juan Carlos is not looking at anything in particular and Ricky looks at him in tiny, shy glances, every time he thinks he won’t be seen.

Eventually, Juan Carlos grows tired of it.

“Can you give us a minute?” he asks, looking at Marc for a moment and then fixing his eyes on Pau.

Pau nods, unglues himself from the wall, and leaves the room without a word—he hasn’t spoken since the warehouse. Juan Carlos forces himself not to worry about it; the moment the door clicks closed behind Marc’s back, he looks at Ricky, catching the kid staring back.

“Sorry,” Ricky mumbles with a shaky laugh, glancing back down at his glass. “I just—I never met a Seraph before, I think.”

Juan Carlos raises his eyebrows. “You said you knew my voice.”

“I said that?” Ricky looks up, surprised, and he blushes when he sees the amused, lopsided tilt of Juan Carlos’ lips. “I’m sorry, I really, seriously don’t remember anything. But, yeah, I don’t—I don’t think I was lying. Your voice does sound a little… familiar.”

He looks nervous, all of a sudden; Juan Carlos gets out of his chair with every intention to walk away so that the kid to catch some sleep—he looks worn-out, a little gray around the edges—but Ricky speaks, so very softly, and Juan Carlos freezes mid-step.

“Why did you seek me?” Ricky asks, without looking at him. “I don’t understand, I _can’t_ understand what happened—I just know, one minute I was in Heaven and the next, I’m crashing through a roof into a pile of metal—and I don’t remember why and I can’t even begin to imagine—but this, this I might get, if you tell me. Why did you seek me? You look—happy, with your humans. I’m not—I don’t—”

Juan Carlos fishes the glass, now only half-full, out of Ricky’s hands before he can drop it and make a mess of himself and the bed. He puts it away, then crouches, so for the first time since he found him, he’s the one looking up to Ricky’s face.

“Why do you think I did?” he asks, kindly.

Ricky shrugs. “I really don’t know. I’m trouble, _I fell_ , and you—you’re a Seraph and—”

“And that makes me your brother,” Juan Carlos says, firm like a concrete wall, and he leans closer to Ricky a little, and Ricky leans closer to him. “Your big brother, by the looks of it. I don’t know what’s going on, but I can take care of you, and I will.”

“Just—just because?” Ricky asks, a little dazed. Juan Carlos lets his own expression soften, satisfied that he made his point clear.

“Just because.”

Ricky drops his head on Juan Carlos’ shoulder then, hooking his legs around his middle; he slips down and off the bed, almost sitting in Juan Carlos’ lap, and wraps his arms around him, snuggling as close as he can. Juan Carlos is a little surprised, and definitely terrified. He pets Ricky’s hair, clumsy and hesitant, and tries his best not to lose his balance.

“You’re warm,” Ricky murmurs, nuzzling happily at his neck. “I like you.”

“I can tell that,” Juan Carlos mumbles, scowling.

Ricky giggles softly, and falls asleep.  


**Author's Note:**

> So, pretty much every other line of dialogue is a quote straight outta the Bible :D “It is finished” are Jesus’ last words on the cross, like ‘gr8 I’m dead and y’all are saved, my job here is done’; the “Why have you abandoned me” spiel Ricky gives is a different translation of _lama sabachthani_ which is again another classic from the Words of the Cross; and the “why did you seek me” line sounds so stiff because it is, indeed, another quote from some Gospel bit I found while surfing the Net.
> 
> Oh and Seraphim are cool!!! They’re the six-winged flaming thingies chanting ‘holy holy holy’ at God when he needs some cheerleading, or just all the time. And they burn with the fire of charity, which is kinda great because they’re so selfless that _they’re on fire_. Juanca is totally a Seraph in real life, and also WINGS ARE COOL AND SIX WINGS ARE SIX TIMES COOL WHICH EQUALS AWESOME. And Juanca is awesome.
> 
> Should have been a three-sentences tumblr fic. I wish I could say I’m not turning this into a series, but I’d be lying.


End file.
